


The Man In The Woods

by Prius



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Camping, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Porn With Plot, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slasher: 76, Triggering things begin in Chapter 2, serial killer au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-08-02 02:43:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16296758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prius/pseuds/Prius
Summary: A routine camping trip is disturbed by a man in the woods.Heed the tags.





	1. Camping

Gabriel’s a fan of camping. 

He’s not one of those people who could disappear into the woods his whole life, though. He likes electricity and showers and AC and heating. He likes cellphone reception and cars and a real bed. His limit for time spent in the great outdoors is probably a weekend, maybe a week maximum. 

Still, though. Camping’s fun for an evening or two. There’s a kind of shivery excitement when the sun sets and darkness starts encroaching, a sense of spine-tingling suspense when the rustle in the bushes could be some long-dead haint. It’s more than just spooks and thrills, though- he greatly enjoys the smuggled alcohol and the laughter of his friends among the crackle of the flames when dusk bleeds to dark.

On this particular trip, he’s with Olivia, Jesse, and Ana. Akande, Torbjorn, Amelie, Moira, and Reinhardt- all people who he had gone camping with in the past- had politely declined to join for their own reasons.

Torbjorn has a newborn baby on the way, little Brigitte ( who coincidentally happened to be Reinhardt’s goddaughter ) which counts him and Reinhardt out. Akande has a business trip to Côte d’Ivoire to survey the newest branch of his family’s firm, Amelie has a romantic getaway with Gerard to Nice, and Moira’s flying to China for something likely research related.

Gabriel doesn’t mind. A more tightly-knit group makes for a better experience, anyway.

The car ride from LA all the way to Angeles National Forest isn’t long, but it seems longer, especially so since Jesse and Olivia keep arguing about music taste the whole way. Both of them keep begging to play their own music; Jesse pleads for some obscure gun-fight ballads and alternative rock, and Olivia makes a case for techno and synth-pop. Gabriel pleasedly dominates the aux cord, ensuring they get a mixture of whatever the hell he feels like. 

It takes about 45 minutes to get there and get through the greeting station; they spend nearly as long just finding a good place to leave the car. 

The four of them get out, lock the doors, and gather all of their gear together. Gabriel and Jesse act as the group’s pack mules, shouldering most of the burden, and all four of them set out to the northeast to find a suitable spot.

It’s interesting, watching nature encroach on the human habitation the further they walk. Flat, packed dirt roads, worn with the boot-prints of thousands of other enterprising campers, become narrow, muddy trails. The occasional sight of a table or grill for some whiny city-slicker becomes replaced with an unbroken treeline. After a while, the only indication of human life is the occasional rock or tree trunk with names and dates carved in. 

It’s a nice hike. The air is warm, though breezy, and the views are inspiring, with lush plants and towering pines and jaw-dropping vistas and flower-speckled fields. Even without gawking at the scenery, there’s a relaxing wildness everywhere they look. Rays of the sun create a dappled canopy on the ground, songbirds birds chatter relentlessly, and unknowable things skitter away when any of the four of them accidentally steps on the undergrowth invading the trails. The terrain is rugged, with dips and humps in the earth, the occasional gnarled root or protruding rock primed to trip someone.  

( Gabriel keeps a counter. Collectively, on the way to their campground, they all trip eleven times, though everyone manages to recover before they fall onto their hands and knees. ) 

They eventually find a suitable clearing, though it's not perfectly untouched. There’s some signs of habitation, like the shallow scoop in the earth in the center of the clearing where someone made a makeshift fire ring, and some areas that appear to have had the dirt flattened down. But it’s not an official campground- the closest one is a ways off, Gabriel believes- and that's good enough. 

Jesse makes at least five jokes about ‘pitching a tent’ until Olivia hits him, but the tent eventually gets set up and they stash some of their heavier supplies inside. 

While Olivia and Jesse are arguing about tent poles, Ana studies the skyline. Gabriel follows her line of sight, trying to determine what she’s thinking. He determines it’s related to time, and helpfully trots up to her to show her his watch face. It reads 2:27 in clear, digital print, and she nods. 

“We should look around.” She says. “We’ve got plenty of daylight left, and I want to know what we’re camping around.” 

“There should be a lake about half a mile from here,” Gabriel offers, digging in his pockets and unfolding his map. While he remembers to do it, he marks the approximate location of their campground. 

“Well, I brought my suit,” Ana murmurs, expression thoughtful. “So did Olivia. We could go swimming.” 

“... Jesse and I brought extra underwear,” Gabriel ventures, and she laughs. 

“Of course you boys didn’t bring trunks.” She shakes her head, a smile plastered to her face. 

“I’m surprised you did,” Gabriel says. “It’s a little cold to be swimming.” 

“At night, maybe, but California didn’t get the memo that it’s supposed to be  _ cold  _ in October. The car said it was eighty-nine on the way here.” 

He whistles. “Didn’t feel that hot.” 

“Because we were in an air conditioned car.” She says, wryly. “Come on. Let’s stop talking and start walking.” 

They explain to Olivia and Jesse where they’re going, and Jesse almost immediately volunteers to come along. Olivia is supportive of it, saying she’ll be fine alone, and even seems a little eager to have him gone, but Gabriel vetoes it. He says they should probably stick to the buddy system, and Ana agrees.

Ana and Gabriel scramble up some hilly terrain, trying to get a good vantage point to look around. When they’ve climbed to the tallest point, Gabriel surveys their surroundings; a mixture of dark green pines and yellow-orange autumn oaks, scrubby grass and distant trees. 

It takes a little searching, but to the north, in the crux of a gently sloped valley, is the telltale glimmer of water. Gabriel bats at Ana and points; she shades her eyes with her hand and squints in the direction he indicated. 

“Yeah, that looks like a lake,” she says, humorously. 

“Want to see if it’s good enough to swim in?” Gabriel’s not picky, per se, but if it’s covered in scummy, stinking algae, he’ll pass. 

“We have time,” Ana says. “Why not?” 

Gabriel skids more than walks back down the hillside, the dry leaves underfoot deceptively slippery. Ana laughs at his ungainly stumble until she slips while following after him and nearly cracks her skull open. 

“Shut up,” she warns preemptively, jamming her finger into his face. He tries to suppress a snicker. “I  _ mean  _ it, Gabe!” 

The journey there takes a while. Twenty to thirty minutes on foot, maybe, with both of them accusing the other of getting them lost. Eventually, and with time, patience, and the guidance of the map and Gabriel’s compass, they eventually manage to angle themselves back in the right direction until they come upon a large, shallow lake. 

Gabriel sketches an approximate path between their campsite and the lake, then puts the map away. Ana, meanwhile, strips off her socks and shoes, being mindful of any potential broken glass left behind by careless campers, and rolls up her pant legs. She toddles across the muddy-sandy shoreline and dips her feet in. 

“Cold?” Gabriel calls. 

“No!” She yells. “Not warm either!” 

Gabriel folds his arms and watches her wade long enough for him to wonder if he should've joined her; just as he bends to untie his bootlace, she comes splashing towards him. 

Her jet-black hair shines in the sun, golden eyes bright. She looks just like the romantic interest in one of those cliché summer break movies, if a tad older than a high school or college student. 

He half-expects her to spout badly written and acted ‘80s teen dialogue when she draws near, though she doesn't. 

“Definitely warm enough for tomorrow,” she says. “Can I have your jacket?” 

“Why?” Gabriel levels her with a suspicious glare. He knows her too well. 

“Well, I don't want my socks to get wet…” She admits, slyly.

“You should've brought a towel, then!”

They wait a bit for Ana’s feet to dry in the sun, then make the long trek back to the camp. They can hear Jesse and Olivia’s bickering before they even see the clearing; it rings loudly among the pines. 

“I thought we established that aces were  _ low  _ numbers, not high ones!” Jesse barks.

“Who plays like that!?” Olivia demands. “Aces are always worth the most!” 

“I asked you at the beginnin’ if aces were gonna be high or low, and you said low!” 

“No you didn't! Besides, I wasn't listening to you!” 

“There's your problem! Gimme the hand back, it's mine!”

“You're only making this rule because  _ I  _ won this round!” Olivia objects. “If you played an ace, you would've said it was high!” 

“I would  _ not!”  _

“Yes, you would!” 

“Would not!” 

“Hi, we’re back!” Ana declares, loudly. The two squabblers look up from where they sit, legs crossed in the dirt, cards fanned in front of them. 

“See anything neat?” Jesse asks. 

“Just Bigfoot,” Gabriel responds, deadpan.

“Awesome! Where?” 

“Jet skiing with Nessie at the lake.” Ana’s delivery is even more flat than Gabriel’s. 

“Fuck, I  _ shoulda  _ gone with you,” Jesse laments. “That sounds way more interestin’ than bein’ stuck with  _ her.”  _

“They’re joking, you dumbass!” Olivia throws up her hands.

“Wh- you think I don’t know that!? That was part of the joke! It’s called  _ playin’ along!”  _

Olivia says something, snappy and argumentative, and their bickering continues.

Gabriel glances at his watch. It’s four eleven already, and he judges that they’re probably going to need to get wood ready for a campfire soon. Though the days might get hot, it’d undoubtedly cooled since they arrived, and it was going to get even colder come night time. 

Plus, Gabriel knew from previous camping trips that dark in the wilderness was  _ much  _ different than dark in the city. Best to start a fire soon.

“I’m gonna go look for logs,” Gabriel volunteers. “Olivia, can you go look for some timber? Jesse, kindling?” 

“Aye aye, sir,” Jesse drawls. He and Olivia pack their cards up and wander into the foliage. Olivia’s job is easy- she just needs a few fistfulls of leaves, which are in abundance. Jesse, close to her, kneels down to rifle through the brush, hunting for twigs. 

Ana, without being told, draws closer to their fire pit. She checks the stones left behind, makes sure there’s no foliage anywhere nearby, and packs the cracks in the stones with great scoops of dirt. 

Gabriel hunts for branches that’ve fallen, using the tactical application of his knee and hands to break off adequately sized pieces. His job takes the longest, and by the time he returns with his wood, they’re already working on getting a blaze going. 

They all wait, patiently, trying to coax a weak little flame into fullness; they feed it timber, then kindling, and finally, Gabriel delicately places a log. From there, as the flame swells, he feeds it a few more thick, sturdy pieces of wood. 

Making the fire took longer than it ought to have. The sun’s definitely phasing into sunset by the time they have a nice blaze, though the sky hasn't yet taken to it, stubbornly blue. 

“So, I got a gho-o-o-o-st story,” Jesse wriggles his fingers. “Anyone want to hear it?” 

“Is it as crap as your ‘totally real, definitely happened to me, and then the entire bus clapped’ stories?” Olivia snarks. 

“Are you  _ accusin’ me _ of  _ lying?”  _

“If by ‘lying’ you mean ‘making shit up’-” 

“It’s a little early for ghost stories,” Ana breaks in, gently. “It’s not even sunset yet.” 

Jesse deflates a little. “S’pose so. I’ll just let this one marinate for a bit. Improve the plot. Characters. Dialogue.” 

“You do that,” Olivia mutters. 

Gabriel checks his watch again. Just about five. “Dinner, guys?” 

“I got it,” Ana says, getting up. She heads for the tent, coming back with a jug of water under her arm and the fancy bear-proof food container Jesse had bought some time ago. They brought hot dogs and marshmallows- standard camping fare- as well as dried fruits and candy. Jesse cracks open a can of Mountain Dew and a beer, which he momentary complains are both lukewarm, but drinks anyway. Olivia nibbles on trail mix, carefully picking out the raisins. 

Gabriel eats from a plastic baggie of banana chips as he adds another log. Ana prepares plates and s’more confectionery, then passes the dishware around.

Jesse skewers two hot dogs and sticks them over the flame, joking about dual wielding sausages, and Gabriel takes one of the beers. Jesse was right- it’s not cold, and it’s maybe not the best- but anything is tolerable in good company. 

They eventually get in a four-way debate over the best chocolate bar; Olivia argues for Snickers, Gabriel for Twix, Jesse for Kit-Kat, and Ana for M&Ms. They round on her- M&Ms are  _ not _ a chocolate bar- but she succinctly and ardently defends her position. 

“I prefer s’mores, anyway,” Ana says, faux-careless, as she sticks a marshmallow on a skewer. 

“Did anybody remember to bring napkins?” Gabriel asks, reaching for the graham crackers once his marshmallow is perfectly toasted. There’s a uniform head shake, and he sighs. Sticky fingers and mouth it was. 

His marshmallow squashes out the other side when he takes a bite of his s’more, immediately sticking to his fingers, and the melty chocolate runs. He turns the s’more around, trying to prevent spillage, but it doesn’t stop the stuff from clinging to his hands. 

Everyone has a nice post-smore finger-licking session, with Jesse vainly trying to brush it off on his jeans. 

“You’ve got some chocolate in your beard, Gabe.” Olivia points out. He licks the corner of his mouth. “Other side. Higher.” 

Gabriel dabs at his upper lip, humming. Jesse seems to realize that wiping his hands on his pants was a bad idea, and remorsefully has another beer.

Ana finishes off a final s’more, then ties off the marshmallow bag and starts putting everything away. Gabriel gets a trash bag from inside the tent and carefully collects bottles, cans, and plates, with Olivia and Jesse making half-hearted attempts to help. 

While they had been eating, the night ebbed to sunset, then twilight, then dusk. The sky turns blue, to orange, to purple, to silver, to a washed-out black perched above the fading streaks of blue and the last traces of auburn on the horizon. Stars have begun to sprinkle the sky. The ever-present burble of birdsong gradually drops off as they settle in their roosts. 

Gabriel momentarily considers a night hike, but the moon isn’t out and it looks like Jesse wants the chance to tell that spooky story he was preparing. The burgeoning darkness and the red glow of the firelight set a perfect mood, too perfect to ruin. Gabriel reclines on the ground, sipping his beer.

Despite Olivia’s initial boasts of bravery, partway into Jesse’s ghost story she begins nervously shifting when there’s any sound outside the clearing. Even the stalwart Ana gets a little shaken when an owl unexpectedly cries or something rustles the undergrowth. 

Jesse is a good storyteller. The flow of his voice, the confident ebb and swell of his tone, the perfect pauses and startling shift from whisper-quiet to dramatic, banshee-like shrieks- Gabriel enjoys watching him tell the story almost more than he enjoys the spooky tale itself. 

“- then the pines groaned, crackling like breakin’ bones. Bernadette clutched her chest, pantin’ hard, and swiveled her head around to see if her pursuer was still close behind-” 

He talks with his hands. Rapidly swinging this way and that, adding unnecessary emphasis. 

“A cascade of bats poured out of the mouth of the cave, a typhoon of fur and leather that raised such a cacophony that she swore it was what would greet you at the gates of hell!” 

He’s not shy about yelling when he needs to add emphasis. Not weak, self-restrained yelling, either. He  _ yells.  _

“There was no noise anymore; it was soft, and quiet, with the only sound bein’ the  _ plip, plip, plip  _ of water droplets coming off of the stalactites. The illusion of safety was upon her now, wrappin’ her up warm like a blanket. The ghost wasn’t followin’ her anymore, she was certain, and she breathed a long sigh of relief.” 

He knows when to be soft and gentle, too. But also when to raise hell. 

“‘Bernadette,’ he moaned. ‘Dear Bernadette. Why do you run from me? I long for your warmth. I long for the feeling of you in my arms, my dear.’ He floated closer, translucent and pale- she was able to see the rocks behind him  _ through  _ him. His eye sockets were deep and black and empty, the insides devoured by rats. Great swaths of his flesh were missin’, chewed by insects, and he was gaunt and corpselike, chest sunken and limbs gangly. He was not the lively, broad-shouldered man he had been in life, and Bernadette began to hyperventilate. 

“‘Back, demon! Don’t come any closer!’ 

“‘Oh, my naive darling. I will take you to the beyond. There I will adore you, and cherish you, for all time.’

“‘You’re not my husband! You’re not my Thomas! You’re  _ dead!’”  _

Jesse screams the latter line, and all three of his captive audience members jump, including Gabriel. Jesse doesn’t break the flow, nor crack his serious facade. 

“‘Let me love you, my heart.’ He floated closer to her, openin’ his mouth. ‘Kiss me, for our marriage, for our sons.’

“His mouth was rotten, his teeth blackened and slimy. A maggot, burrowin’ in his tooth, fell onto his rubbery tongue and sat there an’ squirmed. Bernadette  _ screamed  _ as he loomed in closer, his dead sockets seemin’ to suck the light right out of the world.

“‘No!’ Bernadette wailed. ‘No!’ It didn’t stop his advance. Didn’t stop his cold, bony fingers from wrappin’ around her, didn’t stop his embrace. He kissed her, stealin’ her breath, and all at once, she grows cold. An’ when he pulls away, she falls, stiff an’ lifeless.

“‘Now we can be together, dearest. For all time.’” 

Jesse exhales with a certain finality, with the same relieved reverence as a man who’d just expunged a demon. 

“That's the end?” Olivia squeaks, then clears her throat. “That's such a shitty ending! It wasn't even that terrifying.” 

Jesse huffs. “How’d you end it?” 

“With something less lame?” 

“It was a good story,” Ana says. “But the ending was a little weak.” 

“Fuck you guys.” Jesse says.

“I liked it,” Gabriel chimes in. “You’re good at storytelling, Jesse. You ever think about writing this stuff down?” 

“I do,” He says. “Y’ever heard of Joel Marricone?” 

No one ventures forward with a “yeah, I have”, and Jesse frowns.

“I write for the LA Star Tribune. Under a pseudonym. Joel Morricone.” Jesse pouts. 

“That’s cool,” Gabriel says. “What about?” 

There’s a smidgeon of pride in Jesse’s voice. “Opinion pieces and stuff. It’s a good job.”

Ana claps him on the back. “You’ve got real work! I knew your fifty thousand dollar English degree would be good for something.” 

“Fuck you guys,” Jesse repeats, more sullen. “I’m going to bed.” 

Gabriel checks his watch. Eight-ish. Adequate for bedtime.

“If everyone wants to turn in, I’ll get the fire,” Gabriel volunteers. The sap in one of the logs cracks, loudly, as if in agreement. 

Jesse crawls into the tent with a huff, and Olivia goes after him. Ana digs out their electric lamp, the dial clicking pleasantly when she turns it on. It radiates a warm, pseudo-candlelight, and she plunks it down outside the tent.

Gabriel takes the jug of water Ana had brought out, carefully dousing the flames with regular application of the stuff. He’d read somewhere- he forgets where- that just upending water on your campfire fucks it up, or something. While waiting for the flames to completely die off, he throws in some handfuls of dirt, taking one of the sturdier kindling branches to stir the the embers and ashes underneath the earth. 

He waits a little while, then sets his hand over the ashes. Still hot. He waits a little longer, and tries again. Cooler. Cool enough. 

Gabriel sets the kindling stick down and does a double-check of their campsite. Nothing left out, no remnants of food, fire’s quelled. Everyone else is nestled in the tent, the lantern left on low to serve like a  porchlight for Gabriel. 

Tomorrow’s gonna be fun. 

Gabriel gets up from his crouch by the fire and stretches, trying to suppress a yawn. He walks a little distance away from the campsite to drain the snake- twenty, maybe thirty feet- just so he won’t have to in the middle of the night. 

Gabriel turns back, zipping up his pants, and something catches in the corner of his eye. He turns his head slightly, rapid-fire reassuring himself in his head that there’s nothing out there that’s dangerous. 

Oh, was he wrong. 

“Don’t yell,” The voice is soft, but with a gritty roughness. “Or I’ll butcher everyone in that fucking tent.” 

Gabriel freezes, on instinct. There’s movement behind him, a muted crunch of leaves underfoot, and not that far away either. His mind squeezes, demanding he flee, but he remains frozen. 

“Good. You looked smart.” 

Gabriel tries to turn his head, to see who or  _ what  _ is talking. His first terrified thought is that it must be a practical joke, and the next thought, more ridiculous than the first, is that it’s the ghost of Thomas, the beau from Jesse’s stupid story. 

“Don’t.” The voice advises. 

There’s something cold and flat at the right side of Gabriel’s neck. Sharp. He stands very still, turning his gaze to look straight ahead. His heart kicks into a frantic gallop, and his pulse pounds in his ears and throat. 

“Alright. Turn around.  _ Slowly.  _ To your left, unless you want to get cut.” 

The simple, straightforward directions help, to some extent. They’re calm. Clear. The recommendation about moving to the left wasn’t something he would’ve thought of. 

He turns around- slowly, as ordered- to be met with the shape of a man. Or, at least, something manlike. The only light that’s cast is from his eyes, orange, too round, with four vertical slashes where a mouth should be. The lanternlight is close enough for it to be a promise of salvation, but not far enough for Gabriel to properly make the figure out.

Its shoulders are large. Unnaturally so. It’s tall, about as tall as Gabriel, one hand solidly wielding an shadowy thing that Gabriel thinks is an axe, or some kind of weapon. 

He realizes, after a moment, that the man’s wearing a mask of some sort, a dull white, almost like Jason Voorhees or Hannibal Lecter. The unnatural eyes and mouth are merely the shape of the plastic, though he can’t explain the glow or color. 

Its facewear is about the only feature Gabriel can solidly make out; the light isn’t bright enough to illuminate all of its features. 

“Huh. Thought I had a couple of college students, but you’re a little older than that.” The axe remains, unwavering, at Gabriel’s throat. “Hmph. I can work with this.” 

“Who-” Gabriel’s voice is shaking badly. 

“Things’ll get worse for you if you talk.” It warns, quietly. “Be quiet and you might make it out of this with all your fingers.” 

Gabriel’s eyes dart to the tent. He can’t rationally think through what’ll happen, but his brain feels safer in the light, feels safer with numbers. 

“Don't run,” the axeman warns, correctly guessing Gabriel’s thoughts. “It won't go well for you.”

Gabriel runs anyway. 

He can't summon the willpower to scream- really  _ scream-  _ so he doesn't. He lurches into motion, sprinting to the promised sanctuary of his tent and friends. There’s a snarl from behind him, then footsteps that sound too loud and come too fast. Gabriel’s heart trounces around his chest with every step, blood roaring in his ears. 

The man tackles Gabriel from behind, arms cinching tightly around his middle. He’s thrown forward, off his feet, stomach leaping in fright as he falls. Gabriel manages to catch himself on his elbows, and the force of his landing bolts up his arms to reverberate in his jaw, shocking and painful. He’s stunned for a critical moment, floundering due to pain, surprise, darkness, and  _ fear.  _

An arm loops around his neck, tightening into a headlock. Gabriel flails, managing to find his voice. 

“No-!” Gabriel sucks in a breath of freezing cold air, gasping around the bicep crushing his windpipe. “ _ Oh God-”  _

“Told you not to run. Told you not to talk.” 

This can’t be happening. This  _ can’t be happening.  _

“Ana!” He chokes, and the mystery man’s arm tightens. He can’t  _ breathe.  _

“And I thought you were the  _ smart  _ one,” The man growls, from Gabriel’s back. “Call for help and I’ll kill ‘em all. I told you that.” 

Gabriel claws at the bicep around his neck, tearing at the leather sleeve of the man’s jacket. It doesn’t do anything, though the man’s crushing strength loosens somewhat; Gabriel greedily gulps at the air, then coughs, feeling like his throat is trying to turn itself inside-out. If he were to reflect, the reason the man’s grip weakened was not because he was affected by Gabriel’s thrashing, but to keep him from passing out- though that doesn’t exactly pierce the panicked haze of his mind at the present. 

There was a knee on his back, which Gabriel only realizes when its weight leaves. He’s jerked upward, primarily by his throat. 

“Up,” The man grunts. “Don’t want you on your belly.” 

Gabriel stands, adrenaline coursing through him. The back of his throat feels acidic, bitter, with bile. A bilious tide of fear sweeps through him when the arm releases his throat, only to be replaced with an axe blade. 

“Back up. We’re gonna walk together.”

A chill of fear turns his vertebrae to ice. His mouth feels dry, throat cloyed with sick. 

“No,” He stammers, unintelligently. “I-” 

Gabriel’s clubbed by the butt of the axe in the upper back, his head snapping forward under the force of the blow.  The world seems to distort and swim. A molten kind of pain radiates outward, and his jittery shakiness intensifies as fear all but kicks him in the stomach. 

“You’re not in a position to say no.  _ Move.”  _

A lot of thoughts, half-formed and terrified, swirl through his mind.  _ Who are you- where are we going- are you going to kill me- what’s going on- oh God in heaven I’m so sorry I don’t pray to You more but I swear if you let me live I’ll become a fucking priest-  _ but he doesn’t say any of them, completely silent. 

“Move!” 

The man swings for him, and Gabriel dodges without thinking, tripping over some bump in the undergrowth but managing to stay on his feet. He turns, face-to-face with the axe-wielding maniac, and lets instinct carry him: he lashes out blindly with his foot, hoping to God to have it connect. 

He hits something that feels… Like metal protrusions coming out of the man’s body, though they move a fraction under the force of Gabriel’s foot. Definitely not the crotch, like Gabriel was aiming for, though the man makes a low howl of pain.

“You’ll  _ pay-”  _ He spits, and Gabriel can’t hear the rest of what he says, because Gabriel’s concentrating more on living than talking. He turns to flee, narrowly avoiding hitting trees and tripping over the snarls on the ground. 

But it goes just about as well as last time. 

Gabriel turns his head in an irrational fear that the man’s right behind, and he  _ is,  _ and then Gabriel collides with a tree. 

“ _ Uff!”  _ He falls.

He’s hardly even aware of it- unable to reflect on the situation which, in a cartoon or something, or if it were happening in much less dire straits, would’ve been funny- because his brain isn’t processing anymore.

He tries to figure out what the hell hit him- tries to remember why his body is shrieking at him that he’s in imminent danger- tries to remember why his jaw feels like it’s snapped- tries to figure out why he can’t breathe without pain tearing at his lungs. 

He gasps, unable to draw breath despite his best efforts. Everything seems so much  _ darker  _ than it should be, and he wonders, for a heart-pounding moment, if he’s blind.

Orange swims into his vision- two dots and four slashes. 

“Shouldn’t have run.” 

 

 


	2. Wake-Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel awakens.

Gabriel wakes up with a tremendous ache nearly everywhere in his body. 

Gabriel’s back is the worst offender- as soon as he rouses into consciousness, it starts hurting, commanding his instant attention. There are distinct pinpoints of pain; a broad line just beneath his ribcage and a twinging throb in the neighborhood of his neck and shoulder blades. Outside of his back, his elbows feel bruised, and his jaw pathetically throbs. He honestly feels like he got the crap kicked out of him. 

“Ungh,” Gabriel says, eyes fluttering open. He shifts, wincing in pain when he accidentally places some weight on his elbow. 

A few thoughts immediately come together, vying for attention in Gabriel’s hazy mind. 

_ Where am I?  _

_ Did that actually happen?  _

_ Where’s Ana?  _

_ How the fuck did I live after that?  _

He’s on a polyester, plastic-y material. His mind tells him  _ sleeping bag  _ and his eyes play catch-up, reaffirming that he’s lying on a blue bedroll on a dirty wooden floor. 

He looks around. He has enough time to get sparse bearings- wide open wooden room, curtains drawn, probably a living room. There’s a TV a few feet away from Gabriel- on a scuffed wooden cabinet- that looks like it’s thirty years out of date, massive and boxy, screen filmy with a thin layer of dust. 

That's a running theme in this place- Disrepair and age. There are chips of the ceiling missing, leaking shafts of sunshine into the room. Dust motes freely twirl in the light, recently disturbed, though the significance of that does not come to Gabriel’s mind. He tries to get up, only to find that one of his legs won't move. 

Gabriel glances down in alarm, getting a few seconds to absorb the sight of a heavy metal anklet clamped around one of his legs and chained, on less than two feet of steel, to the floorboards. 

“Good morning, sunshine. Sleep well?” 

Gabriel’s head whips upward, trying to not let any panic show. The guy from last night- the guy who’d attacked him and  _ kidnapped  _ him- is sitting on a recliner a little ways across from the TV, its leather cracked and scarred. In his lap is a short axe, a whetstone poised in his grungy fingers over the blade. It looks plenty sharp to Gabriel already, but evidently, the kidnapper didn't think so. 

By daylight, his appearance is clearer. White hair, massive shoulders accentuated by the build of his jacket, a muscular body filling out a ragged t-shirt, and ripped jeans. One of his legs- the left- has been freshly bandaged, but it looks like a horror show. Half a dozen protruding bits of metal stick out of him, like his knee is a pincushion or an anatomy frog. Gabriel swallows when he realizes the bandages are wound  _ over  _ those things- as in, they were there first- and tries to look anywhere else. 

“Like it?” The man jiggles his thigh demonstratively. He’d noticed Gabriel staring. “You did that. Feisty asshole. Just had to fucking kick me and push them back in. Bled a lot just trying to get them back into place.” 

Lots of words balloon in Gabriel’s throat- questions and pleads- but they turn to frightened bile and he says nothing.

The kidnapper takes the axe out of his lap and props it against the recliner. It's well out of Gabriel’s reach. 

“We’re safe here.” The man says. Gabriel has a suspicion that  _ safe  _ means different things to the both of them. “Here, you can talk, scream, beg,  _ run,  _ I don't care. No one has ever gotten away.” 

A frightened chill seeps into Gabriel’s bones. His leg reaches the end of the chain, as far away from the maniac as he can get. 

“Let me introduce myself.” The man leans forward. His orange eyes seem to burn underneath the mask. “My name’s Jack. Yours?” 

Gabriel’s throat won't unglue. He can't talk. He's not even sure if he wants to. 

“Could just leave your tombstone empty,” Jack says, casual, as a barely disguised threat. “Not like anyone else is going to see it, anyhow. I just want a name to the face.” 

Gabriel remains silent, and Jack’s previously casual posture stiffens with aggression. Gabriel reflexively shrinks in on himself, anticipating an attack. 

Jack grabs his axe and gets up, each motion sharp and fast; a tide of exponential dread washes over Gabriel. 

“Name, boy,” Jack spits.  _ “Now.” _

“Gabriel,” He doesn't even think of giving a fake name. “Gabriel! Gabriel Reyes!” 

“How old.” 

“Twenty-eight in a couple weeks,” Gabriel complies, hastily. 

Jack grunts. Sits back down and lets the axehead thunk against the floorboards. He unzips one of his coat pockets and fishes for a moment, then produces a battered notepad and a cheap ballpoint pen. He flips a couple of brittle, inked pages, then scrawls something- presumably everything Gabriel’d just blurted out- before tucking it away. Gabriel breathes an internal sigh of relief. 

“You fed recently, kid?” 

_ Kid  _ and  _ boy  _ jangle against Gabriel’s nerves. It's ludicrous to be upset over, considering his circumstances, but the harsh condescension doesn't bode well. He uncertainly opts to not say anything. 

“Jesus  _ Christ,  _ can you not talk unless I have a fucking axe in my hand?  _ Have you eaten?”  _ Jack barks, irate. 

There's a not-so-hidden threat, again. The part of Gabriel that wants to  _ live  _ kicks in, miles ahead of his conscious mind. 

“Last night,” he says, dumbly. 

“Make sure that's the truth,” Jack’s tone is glowering, resentful. “I don't like starving my catches.” 

‘My catches’. Is that what Gabriel is? Prey?

An unexpected laugh- bitter, self-pitying- starts catching in his chest, and he sucks in a sharp breath, because he realizes  _ tears  _ are stinging his eyes and that  _ laughter  _ is just one step away from sobbing. Gabriel covers his mouth. 

“Yeah, they all do that.” Jack is unsympathetic, but non-hostile. He turns his chin slightly.

“What the  _ fuck,”  _ Gabriel says, and his voice cracks on the ‘fuck’. “What the hell-” 

“They pass through this one quick,” Jack says, as if to himself. “Spend an hour on crying and screaming and laughing. I think it's their brains trying to see what emotion fits. Like some bitch trying on hats for a garden party.” 

“What the fuck  _ is  _ this?” Gabriel demands, voice ragged. “What the hell are you  _ doing?  _ Who  _ are  _ you?” 

“Jack, like I said.” He slouches in his chair. “S’all I've been. S’all I will be.” 

“That doesn't fucking  _ answer  _ me, asshole-!” Gabriel half-sobs. 

“Keep your tongue in check, kid, or I'll rip it out,” Jack snarls in reprimand. “Remember who’s in those chains.” 

Gabriel quiets, though the first bitter tear is shed. He angrily scrubs it away,  _ furious  _ at himself for not fighting harder, for looking back, for leaving the group, for cowering. 

“Right. See, there's got to be a balance.” The chair creaks. Jack leans forward, palms clasped as if in prayer, elbows on his knees and back bent. Those orange-yellow eyes seem to stare into Gabriel’s soul. “You can talk. I encourage it, even. But you take that disrespectful attitude with me again and you best hope I'll leave you at least your thumbs.” 

That message doesn't really reassure him, though Gabriel gets the impression it was supposed to. He stays silent, another tear ruthlessly wiped away as it falls. 

“Jesus Christ, can I pick ‘em,” Jack mutters to himself. He gets up, taking his axe, and Gabriel tenses, sharply. He needn't have bothered- Jack stalks around, behind the recliner, and deeper into the house. “Should’ve picked up the idiot in the hat. He looked fun, at least.” 

Gabriel tries to focus. To be rational. Panicking and crying won't help. He has to swallow the lump in his throat and pick his shit up and  _ deal  _ with this. He needs to deal in facts.

Jack’s footsteps are heavy, heavier than his frame and apparent age would suggest. He swaggers, or stalks, more than he walks, with his head slightly hunched and his arms apart from his body, knees skewed, but with a certain air of confidence and reassurance about him. 

The room they're in in a sort of rectangle shape, with one half of it occupied by Gabriel, the TV, the recliner, a dusty rug covered in hair, and a battered sofa. From the ground, Gabriel can't completely tell what’s in the other half of the room, but it looks like a kitchen. From this angle he can see a stove, cabinets, counters, what looks like a refrigerator or an ice locker or something. Does that mean they're on the electrical grid? That they're not in the middle of nowhere?

“How much do you weigh?” Jack is slowly moving towards the kitchen. He limps on his bad, pincushioned leg, lending him an awkward gait, though still unsettlingly heavy. It makes Gabriel wonder how Jack was able to keep up with him,  _ and  _ outpace him, in the dark, if he was elderly with a bad knee. “Don't fucking make me come over there. How much?” 

“I don't know-” 

“You're a gym guy. I know those arms and those legs and that chest- you work out, and every lifter I ever knew knew how much he weighed. So don't make me repeat myself.” 

“A hundred and ninety-five,” Gabriel mumbles. What the hell is he using this for? Is he- a  _ cannibal  _ or something? 

Oh Christ. Oh Christ, he’s gonna get eaten alive or some shit- 

“Ever had venison?” 

“Wh- what?” 

“Venison. Deer.” Jack ducks out of Gabriel’s sight, doing something in a lower cabinet. 

“... No.” 

“Well, unless I steal from campers, deer is all we’ve got. So you better learn to like it.” There's the rummaging of metal. Cans, Gabriel thinks. 

While Jack is out of sight, Gabriel tries to quietly and frantically get out of his chain. The anklet is solid, metal, but it has a locking mechanism, like handcuffs or something, which means he may have a chance. Brute strength isn't enough- Gabriel pries at the steel until the ends of his fingernails chip off, but it doesn't do anything. 

Jack stands up, can in hand, and Gabriel freezes. 

“I  _ can  _ hear that.” 

Gabriel jerks his hands away as if the chain had scalded him. 

“Just settle, kid. You'll have plenty of time for worthless escape attempts later.” Jack pulls a bowl out of the cupboard, and a slim drawer rattles with silverware as he retrieves a spoon. 

“What do you  _ want?”  _ Gabriel says, driven by a helpless sense of despondency. 

“Million dollar question. What  _ do  _ I want. I want teenagers and college students and almost-twenty-eight year olds to mind their damn business and stay in whatever cesspool city spawned them.” There's a  _ scrape, scrape, scrape _ of a can opener peeling off a lid.

“Th- then let me go, I won't camp again!” Gabriel pleads. 

“You know what? I believe you. If I let you go now, you’d never come back to the woods.” There's the wet slop of the can’s contents going into the bowl. “Unfortunately, I didn't finish. I don't just want you gone. I want to teach a lesson. A very ugly, permanent lesson.” 

Gabriel’s stomach knots. “What do you…?” 

“Depends on who. Sometimes I give ‘em a few broken bones, pat them on the head, let them go. Usually only the nicer, younger ones, though, and I can't really say you've been either.” 

Gabriel’s stomach knots  _ tighter.  _

“Most of them, though… I think you have a good idea.” Jack’s voice implies a smile that Gabriel can’t see.

“You're insane,” Gabriel says, a little breathless with fright. “You're a- a murderous psychopath!” 

“Like that's supposed to hurt my feelings? I don't cower from the truth.” There's a clickty sound of plastic and metal colliding, a sloshing in-between. Jack’s arm stirs, slow and practiced. “As a friendly reminder, I advise you stow your tongue. Do a quick rank check the next time you feel like opening your mouth, kid.” 

Gabriel’s lips come together, and he sits on the sleeping bag, hugging his knees to his chest. 

“What are you going to do about-” He almost says their names, but thinks better of it. Just  _ thinking  _ about them is like driving a knife into his heart. “- my friends?” 

“Nothing, for now. They're on alert. Probably got the police involved. There's been a lot of disappearances around here lately. I'm surprised you didn't know.” Jack says it so casually. Like he’s not responsible for it at all. Like it’s the weather rather than human life. Gabriel buries his face in his knees. 

There's the pouring of liquid, the stir of Jack’s arm again. Water, from a bottle, into whatever he’s making. 

Jack sets the bowl on a hot plate, then turns away and starts rummaging through the cabinets again. He gets a wooden tray and a box of- crackers?- and sets them on the counter. He turns to stare, contemplatively, at the hot plate.

“Do you have any family?” Jack asks, leaning against the counter. 

“No!” Gabriel bursts out. “No! I don't-” 

“Calm down,” Jack orders, coolly. “Didn't ask because I want to hunt them down. It's conversation.” 

Gabriel refuses to indulge him. He tries to not cry into his jeans. 

“Pets.” Jack says, casually. “Friends.” 

Gabriel does not rise to the bait. 

Jack drums his fingers, irately, against the countertop. “At least the others  _ begged.  _ Make some noise, boy, or I'll start worrying you’ve died.” 

“I don't want to talk to you, you fucking nutcase,” Gabriel spits, defiantly.

“What the  _ fuck  _ did I say?  _ Twice  _ already? Mind your goddamn tongue, you  _ brat!”  _ Jack snarls in reply. 

Resentment- something like tears- threatens to rush out of him, but they don't. Gabriel clenches his teeth. 

“Oh. Oh, y’know what?” 

Gabriel does not like that tone. 

“This stuff’s gonna take a while to cook,” Jack says. “Hot plate doesn't work for shit. Need to take a new one.” 

Evidently thinking that’s all the explanation he needs, Jack slowly returns to his position on the recliner. Gabriel won't look at him. 

“Hey,” Jack says, softly. It's gentle, unusual, and for a moment Gabriel thinks, perhaps, there's some redeemable sympathy in him. He thinks, maybe, this madness will end. 

Instead, Jack pulls down the zipper of his jeans and shifts, to face the wall to Gabriel’s left, knees draped over the recliner’s arm. He makes a deep, pleasured sound as he palms himself through his boxers. 

Gabriel looks away, almost immediately. 

God- is he  _ jerking off?  _ Right here? Right now? 

“Eyes up front,” Jack snarls. “You get a front row seat. You  _ watch.”  _

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was completed in November, nearly three months ago, but I was never happy with it and never got around to posting it. I would not expect a third chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> This one's been rattling around the old brain pan since the Slasher: 76 skin came out. I have a plan for a whole story, but we'll see how I'm feeling a few chapters from now.


End file.
